


what is lost can always be found

by lilibug



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, basically betty wanted something from jughead o-k, gratuitous amounts of italicized words, missing moment, s4e10: varsity blues, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22466182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilibug/pseuds/lilibug
Summary: "How can I make it up to you?"He asks the question with barely concealed smugness, a subtle upturn of his lips. The side of his thumb brushes her skin, just slipping beneath the edge of her turtleneck. He knew what he was doing at the time, just like he does now.Betty has an idea that benefits the both of them. A 4x10 missing moment.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 15
Kudos: 209
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees, 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards — Winners!





	what is lost can always be found

**Author's Note:**

> beta by [@arsenicpanda](https://arsenicpanda.tumblr.com) & [@bettycooper](https://bettycooper.tumblr.com), the later making me this very lovely header for the fic that clearly highlights these _looks_ that I became entranced by.

_"How can I make it up to you?"_

He asks the question with barely concealed smugness, a subtle upturn of his lips. The side of his thumb brushes her skin, just slipping beneath the edge of her turtleneck. He knew what he was doing at the time, just like he does now.

"I don't think—"

The words are on the tip of her tongue—how there isn't anything Jughead can do. He can't write this article for her. He can neither go back in time and pretend he didn’t know Veronica in the first place nor can he acquire the much needed information which was lost as a result of it. He can't get her into Yale. He can't make her family any less the telenovela they’ve become.

"—I don't _want_ to think at all, actually. Just for a little while," Betty corrects, looking up at him from under the weight of his palms—light—on her shoulders, and fears, were she standing, she might sink under the pressure.

"And you want my help with that?” he murmurs, head tilting as his gaze trails a slow path down to her lips. She’d bitten them swollen while waiting for him.

She nods, fingers curling around the widths of elastic above his hips.

“Here?”

The door is wide open over her shoulder. She doesn’t need to look, More importantly, she doesn’t want to tear her attention away from him, not when he’s so focused on her. His thumb drags over the slope of her neck, tugging the high collar down, and she can nearly feel his breath over the rising beat of her pulse.

Her tongue feels tingly in her mouth, and she struggles out a quiet, “Yes.”

His hands leave her shoulders, warmth lingering, spreading down her chest, as he taps two fingers over her crossed legs. He walks them up the length of her thigh until he finds the hem of her dress and barely dips beneath it. His fingertips barely graze the edge of her underwear, but it's enough. Heat blooms down her spine like a flower unfurling, and her mind goes someplace else—someplace beyond the clutches of Riverdale—where only Jughead can take her.

She straightens up, back arching as she tugs on his suspenders. "Jug…"

He spreads his hand flat against the curve of her thigh and hip, dragging back down until he can cup her knee in his palm. His fingers brush the sensitive skin underneath as they curl to grip, lifting her legs apart so he can wedge between them. Then he's yanking her forward until she's barely on the desk anymore, pelvis pressing roughly to her own.

Her lips part with a quiet inhale, hands sliding up his suspenders until she's grabbing at his chest, at his shirt underneath.

"You don't know what these legs do to me, Cooper."

Jughead leans forward, nose bumping against hers, and she feels him _everywhere_ : his hands rucking up the corduroy until it's cutting into her hips, his chest pressing against the subtle heave of hers until she has to cling to him in order to stay upright. She can taste sickly sweet mixed drink under the sharpness of his breath as he hovers over her lips. It makes her head swim.

"Tell me," Betty pleads.

"I think of you in your too-short dresses—skirts that barely cover your ass—at night. In the shower. During class."

His voice settles in the pit of her stomach, low and heavy, and she wants to writhe in his arms.

"You're more of a distraction now than ever before." He licks at the corner of her mouth, lips grazing hers in a fleeting motion that has her aching all the way to her core. "I dream about these legs wrapped around my hips," he breathes into the shell of her ear, thumbs tucking into the waistband of her underwear. "—And around my neck."

She fists his shirt and suspenders in her hands, nuzzles at the side of his face tucked into her shoulder, and runs her teeth over the cut of his jaw. "I have some discourse with you, too."

He chuckles into her ear, and her cunt clenches.

"And what's that?"

"This stupid party wear you've got on." Betty huffs, fingers reaching up to thread through the hair at the back of his head beneath his beanie. She tugs until he pulls back enough that she can let her eyes drop down to his half-buttoned shirt, flimsy and thin, and she wants to rake her nails down his chest—until she sees red of her own. "I usually have to dress you myself to get you out of a flannel."

He stifles a grin. "Perhaps I've just caught on over the years."

"Well, I won't have it."

"Won't have what?"

She runs her hands up, lifting the beanie from his head to let it drop from between her fingers to the desk beside her. It's only going to get in her way.

"You looking like sex without me around to have my wicked way with you."

"Oh yeah?" he hums, leaning in to brush his lips over hers, never fully connecting. "Well, I would hate to displease my mistress."

Betty bites the inside of her cheek as he rocks his pelvis against her, the hard line of his cock pressing more insistently now. Heat burns down her throat, and she feels something, _somewhere_ , catch fire. She rips her hand down his front with a jerk of her arm. Buttons clatter to the floor.

His eyes flicker down to his shirt, open and yanked from his pants.

She feels the rumble of his chest beneath the slide of her palm up from his belt, muscles contracting under the press of her fingers to each divot. She would shred the undershirt had she talons, too. "Get on your knees, and make it up to me, then."

The way his pupils bleed out the stormy grey of his irises has her mesmerized. He licks his lower lip, and she wants to bite it.

“As you wish.”

Jughead leans in and brushes her lips once more before sinking to his knees between the spread of hers. He palms her hips, fingers spreading wide and clutching everywhere he can reach until she feels the sharp press of his rings against her skin. He kneads, flexing her hips toward his face until he presses his nose over the apex of her legs.

She squirms as he inhales, fingers curling around the edges of the desk. “Jughead—”

“You always smell so fucking good.”

He rubs his nose over the soft, cotton, zero-frills pair of underwear she’d chosen that morning. Her knees strain to snap closed, but his shoulders are broad, keeping her open as he mouths over the damp spot of her arousal. His tongue and breath are hot, teasing, as he begins to drag the garment over her hips.

She manages to shimmy and lift without kneeing him in the face. Though a black eye does make him look positively dangerous, she would prefer if it wasn’t her who had given it to him.

As he tucks her underwear into the back of his slacks, her eyes roll.

“Don’t let Bret see those.”

He snorts. “Only if that motherfucker wants to get punched in the dick.”

The way his hands climb up her thighs, spreading and lifting her knees to hook over his shoulders, feels the way possessiveness sounds: all tight lipped, harsh grips, and the feral beat of hearts.

“On second thought,” Betty hums as his lips trail over the skin of her thighs, “maybe you could sell them to him. He is kind of like your sugar daddy.” Jughead stares up at her, and she smirks. She lifts a hand to wind through and grip at his hair, pushing his mouth toward her cunt. “I’m just kidding.”

He grumbles, “better be,” before gripping at the sides of her thighs, her hips, with enough force to bruise, and the thought of it—of the marks he’ll leave behind—has her eyes fluttering before he does more than let his breath fan over her.

She makes a strangled and involuntary sound the moment his mouth finds her. Her legs tense over his shoulders, one hand tugging on his hair in an effort to bring him closer and the other gripping the desk. The flat of his tongue makes several long, slow licks from her entrance to her most sensitive spot above it. Every part of her body responds to him. Her nipples ache, stretching her chest taut as she breathes in sharply. Her eyes flutter in a struggle to stay focused on him, on the way his tongue glides through her arousal so slickly. Her hips rise to his mouth, clit seeking more contact.

Jughead gives it to her. He puckers his lips around the bundle of nerves and sucks tenderly, the very tip of his tongue brushing feather light against her in tiny circles. At the burst of sensation, her cunt all but floods, dripping with the ache to be filled. Her knuckles turn white against the desk as she holds herself back from rocking against his mouth too violently. She feels sweat gather at the backs of her knees, along her neck. Her mouth feels like sandpaper.

“Fuck,” she nearly shouts, knees trembling.

“Shh,” he commands, the press of his fingers hard at her hips in a reminder of where they are, but it’s counterproductive. His lips buzz, and her already fraying nerves become even more jagged and raw with each touch.

He’s going to take her exactly where she wants to go, exactly where she _needs_ to go. There’s no question about it, with the way he’s worshiping her with his tongue like it's his fucking _job_ , and she loves how she can know him so intrinsically and yet still be surprised by him. Every time they come together is as much familiar as it is new and thrilling.

Heat coils in her lower belly, and she arches her back. She doesn’t even realize she’s making much noise until Jughead clamps a hand over her mouth all while he continues to lick and suck, the tip of his tongue writing sweet nothings on her clit, coaxing her entire body to the edge.

All too abruptly, he stops.

Betty lets out a soft whine beneath the breadth of his hand, her fingers pulling harshly on his hair, free hand wrapping around his wrist. He starts again. Stops again.

She almost sobs.

“You’re making too much noise, baby.”

There is a very low percentage of someone—anyone else but them really—being in the school this late on a Thursday, but she knows this game, the one he’s playing with her now. His lips curl over her clit, sucking gently before he laves his tongue over her in rolling waves. He wants her to beg.

She tugs on his wrist until his fingers fall to her throat instead. “Please,” she moans, sucking in a breath that makes her lungs burn. “I need it.”

“You need what?” he asks, tongue gliding through her folds and licking her up and down like he’s savoring his just desserts.

There are a million adjectives, a thousand verbs, a hundred versions of his name, that ring in her head but stick in her throat. She can't get any of the words out, not even a plea, as his hand tightens over her throat, thumb pressing in along her pulse and rubbing so gently that tears spring to her eyes. She nearly doubles over, core clenching around nothing as pleasure burns her up so quickly it's like he struck a match.

"Want— _need_ —you inside me," she chokes out. "Want to come on your cock."

Jughead flicks his tongue against her folds, tongue dipping into her hot cunt and fucking up into her as far as he can. It feels sinful, and she wants to suck every last drop of her from his mouth, taste what he does to her.

His hand slides down from her throat, landing on her knee as he kisses the inside of her thigh. He's standing again, hands setting her legs down until the toes of her shoes barely scrape the floor. His palms slide up her thighs, muscles shaking in his wake as he shuffles closer, until he's pressing the front of his pressed slacks to her wet cunt, and she's surely soaking them.

His hand drags up from the juncture of her hip and thigh, brushing over her clit until she arches beneath his hand, and her jaw falls slack. She grabs weakly at his suspenders, tugging until his lips pepper what he can reach of her throat. The pad of his thumb rubs in a circle, and he slides through her folds as gently as he says her name. "So pretty like this, Betty. All strung out just for me."

He dips his thumb inside her—just like he did with his tongue—then withdraws, and her head tips back as he tugs on her ponytail with a pull of his fingers. Her eyes struggle to focus on him. He's hazy, but she knows the flush on her cheeks matches the one on his own.

"Juggie," she breathes as his thumb glides over her swollen lip, spreading her arousal over her mouth like lip gloss.

"So pretty," he echoes. "You want to come now?"

She shivers. "Please."

She hears the sound of his zipper, the rustle of his wallet—a foil packet.

"No," Betty snaps her head down from the flowered pattern etched in the chipping paint. "No condom—" She swats his hands, plucks his wallet up, and drops it next to his hat. "Want you to make a mess of me with your come."

"Fuck." He groans into her neck, falling into her shoulder as her hand slides into his boxers. "You're sure?"

"Yes." She nods, head resting against his as her fingers circle the heat of his cock. Her cunt aches for him, and she squirms closer. "We're always so careful. I just need to be reckless right now."

It's not though. Not really. She's been on birth control since she found out Polly was pregnant, but considering her family history, they were always more than careful. Not today though because having sex in The Blue & Gold, with the door wide open, and him painting her insides so she walks home with him dripping down her thighs? She needs it more than anything. To feel him even when he's gone.

He sighs into her throat, licks a line up to the corner of her mouth, but doesn't kiss her. She nearly licks the taste of herself off her lips, but he drinks in the sight of her with such perverse pleasure that she can _feel_ it. Instead, she only pouts.

Jughead lifts her chin with sticky fingers, just as she squeezes his cock in her grasp. He twitches; she preens.

"Just like the good ol' days," he says quietly, and her eyes flicker to the couch in the corner of the room, surely more comfortable than the desk but not as dangerous. Not as daring. And right now? She needs to dare to dream.

"I love you," Betty whispers, tugging his cock free enough to nudge at her cunt.

"I know." He pulls her knees up to frame his hips, and she takes it a step further to lock her ankles around his back.

She pulls and _pulls_ on his suspenders as he slips inside, until they’re flush, and he's bowing her back over the desk. They're panting over each other's mouths. She's so _full_ of him that she nearly feels him in her throat.

Why the _fuck_ did he have to live at Stonewall again?

They move, shift a little too harshly, and a book from the precarious stack at the edge of her desk topples to the floor with a loud _smack_. It only spurs them on, the sound reverberating off the concrete walls until it echoes down the hallway, and she doesn't _care_ if there is someone to hear it. Doesn't care if someone sees. _Let them_ , she thinks, rocking her hips up to meet the steady thrust of Jughead's.

Seconds tick by, the sound of the clock on the wall drowned out by their shared breaths and the sound of their coupling. It takes very little of those seconds for Betty to feel the precipice of her orgasm rising to meet her—stronger, steadier than before.

Her thighs burn and shake, arms tremble as she fights, fights to last longer. To not lose herself in the oncoming storm that wages in the back of her mind. She yearns, keens, _reaches_ out, for the tangible thread, the only thing keeping her afloat.

"Come home to me," Jughead murmurs, lips brushing her temple, her sweat slicked hairline. "Let me find you."

It's futile.

His words, his voice, his intentions—they snap her from the troubles of gravity, and then, she _falls_.

Betty's spine arches, her lips trembling, fingers clawing deep as she finally accepts the shattering, clashing visions of blinding white and streaks of color—shades between the darkest brown and brightest blue. It feels like everything and nothing all at once, and Jughead takes and takes and _takes_ all that she’ll give.

Her eyes roll back with a stuttered breath, skin aflame, nerves alight, and her heart beats a dangerous rhythm against its cage.

She always feels like a masterpiece in his hands especially as she falls apart.

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [@lilibug--xx](https://lilibug--xx.tumblr.com)


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